


bibamus, moriendum est

by ladililn



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:23:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladililn/pseuds/ladililn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>let us drink, for we must die</p>
            </blockquote>





	bibamus, moriendum est

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically my version of the angsty canon-verse R-POV oneshot I think most people are compelled to write after seeing the movie and being victimized by George Blagden's amazing face acting skills. Also it's a poem. Inspired by Yeats' "A Drinking Song," which I highly suggest everyone go read because it's basically the most e/R poem ever. Roughly takes place around "Drink With Me" in the movie; pretentious Latin title attributed to Seneca the Elder (the translation is the summary).

You are going to die, and you have

a bottle

and

a broken piano.

You are going to die, and you have

immortal longings

and

a heart full of bitter regret.

The piano cannot play, but

for once

the silence suits you.

(You look at him, and you think

_I would have written you a sonata,_

_if I only knew how._

_I would have written you an entire symphony._ )

It’s a lie.  You drink.

You abandon the piano.

You move to sit

elsewhere.

You drink.

(When you drink, you drink to drown.)

 

He has a letter, and

you envy him.

Perhaps he is as dead as you—

or will be, come morning—

when you shall all be dead together, but—

he has a letter.

You do not have a letter.

You have a bottle and a broken piano, and

you no longer have the piano.

 

(You look at him, and you think

_I would have written you a thousand letters,_

_if only I had been farther away._ )

You were always

too close, too

afraid to stray too far

for fear

you’d lose him—

and so you were always looking up up up.

(And he would never have read your letters anyway,

only

used them as kindling

for his revolutionary fire.)

 

You think Patria is

very old and very ugly

and probably not worth saving.

But he loves her, and

to him

she is beautiful.

And that is why you find him

so beautiful.

You cannot love a country, but

you can love a Revolution.

A Revolution is

golden and gorgeous and

gone too soon.

 

They drink too, but

none of them can drown like you can.

You have practiced drowning before.

You have done it all your life.

It is

second nature.

Your lungs fill up and

you bury your heart in sleep and

your mind sinks

down

down

down.

(It is better, you think,

to drown in drink

than to drown in him.)

 

You look at him, and you think

_I would have written a sonnet on your eyelashes_

_an epic for your cheekbones_

_an ode to your ass—_

_yes—_

_and a dirty limerick_

_about your smile_.

This—

this much is true.

You have tried.

But you are

no poet

and your attempts are

plodding and singsong

and end up sounding like a children’s rhyme—

mocking and maudlin—

and somehow they all end the same.

( _I loved a Revolution, duly_

_Though my heart is soaked and black_

_I loved a Revolution, truly_

_Which never loved me back._

_And I would die for this Revolution_

_If the Revolution only asked._ )

 

He doesn’t ask.

You drink to drown.

(Instead, you sleep.)

 

(You look at him, and you think

_Do you permit it_

and he looks at you and

smiles.

And you are very afraid

but he is

very beautiful

and it feels like you have

just come up

out of the water

gasping for breath

and calling his name.)


End file.
